Silent Hill 4: Waiting For You
by D. Natali
Summary: Cynthia waits for Henry at the turnstile and fantasizes about him. Rated M for sexual situations and violence.


**Waiting For You**

Cynthia Velasquez had made it to the small office by the turnstile of the King Street Line in the subway station and had found a handle that would control the subway train outside. Moving the train would reveal the exit—and once she escaped from this terrible place, the nightmare would be over and she would wake up.

But the dream hadn't been _all_ bad, had it? It did have a certain perk.

Said perk was the cute white boy she'd met at the other end of the subway station. She didn't know where he'd come from, she just turned around and there he was, leaning against a wall and avoiding eye contact. She looked him up and down—he had an average build, leaning toward slender. He wore an old pair of blue jeans, a light blue button-down shirt, and black boots. All things considered, he was pretty ordinary until you got to his face. His nose was a little on the large side, but he had the kind of face where a big nose was flattering, offset by sculpted cheekbones and fair skin. He would have been a "pretty boy" if not for his five o'clock shadow and slightly longish, light brown unkempt hair, which gave him just enough of an edge.

She could tell he was shy by the awkward way he told her his name when she asked. What was it again?

"Henry," she sighed.

After a little banter about her dream—strange to be talking about having a dream while _in_ the dream, but stranger things have happened—he turned around to look at something behind him.

She approached him, took him by his shoulders, and turned him around, forcing him to face her. She did her "helpless little girl" act where she needed the "big strong man" to rescue her as she told him about how she was stuck in the subway station and needed him to help her find the exit. She felt him up as she ran her hands from his shoulders to his chest and back again—he wasn't muscular, but she could tell that he was nice and firm under that shirt.

The poor guy just stared, dumbstruck. He looked surprised, but not offended. At this point, she noticed what beautiful eyes he had—they were wide and a light hazel color.

She stared deeply into his eyes as she offered him a "special favor" if he helped her, punctuating it by running her finger over his lips. His lower lip quivered in response. He had a lovely mouth, and she was tempted to kiss him, but decided to save it for later.

Now, Cynthia looked around the office and found a microphone. She wasn't sure if it would work, but when she pushed the button on its base, she heard the satisfying sound of feedback. "Henry!" she announced when the noise died down, "I found the exit—come to the turnstile!"

She set down the microphone and waited.

But she _had_ found the exit on her own, after they'd gotten separated. Had he really kept his end of the bargain?

Cynthia reflected on everything that had happened in the dream so far, glossing over the unpleasant parts. Henry was amazing with the way he fought off ghosts and monsters to protect her. Of course, he did keep disappearing, but she didn't think he was trying to ditch her—she blamed it on the weirdness of the dream. If he'd been trying to ditch her, he would have left her in the subway train instead of getting her out after the man in the blue coat had locked her in.

No, Henry deserved something for his efforts, if nothing else. Sweet Henry—strong, handsome, and pure as the driven snow. If there was ever concrete proof that this was a dream it was that he was too good to be true. Men like him existed only in fairytales … and fantasies.

Just thinking about him made her tingle all over. She stroked along the length of the microphone absentmindedly with her finger. She pushed the button again. "Henry!" she said, more anxiously this time, "I found the exit—come to the turnstile!"

She considered saying something naughty over the loudspeaker and giggled at the idea, but decided against it—it'd be more fun if he didn't know what he was in for.

He'd come through the door and she'd greet him by pulling him close and finally kissing him passionately—his lips would feel warm and moist and soft, in contrast to his rough cheeks—as she ran her fingers furiously through his thick hair.

He would likely protest at first: "this is wrong" and "we hardly know each other", but he'd soon give in because he secretly wanted to—underneath that shy, quiet exterior was a wild animal longing to be let out of its cage.

She'd continue making out with him as she'd lift up his shirt and run her hands all over his chest and back as she'd grind against him.

Cynthia chewed on her lip, anxiously, as she imagined him becoming aroused—breathing hard and moaning, tipping his head back, his body tense.

Then, she'd kneel in front of him, unzip his jeans, and … finish him off.

She let out a shuddering sigh as she imagined him quivering with ecstasy.

Finally, the door began to open.

Nearly startled out of her little fantasy, Cynthia smiled and leaned seductively against the desk. But soon her smile faded and was replaced by a look of horror.

It wasn't Henry at the door, but the other man she'd seen in the subway station. The one with the long blondish hair and penetrating green eyes. The one who wore the long dark blue coat. The one who had terrorized her and locked her in the subway train earlier.

She screamed. Her terror was so great that she should have woken up from this nightmare as soon as she saw him smiling at her, or at least when he entered and quickly cornered her in the small room.

She didn't wake up when he flashed a switchblade before her eyes.

She didn't wake up when he started stabbing her in the chest and stomach and she felt the warm wet blood pour down her body.

She didn't wake up when she fell to the floor in agony.

She didn't wake up when he carved numbers into her left breast.

But she did pass out.

- - -

She heard the door open again, but she was facing away from it and couldn't move—had he come back to finish the job?

"Are you okay?" It was Henry's sweet voice she heard as he carefully lifted her into his arms. She had become cold, but he felt pleasantly warm against her as he propped her up in his lap and held her hand.

"It's just … a dream … right?" Cynthia said, barely able to get the words out. "I think … I drank too much last night …"

She looked into Henry's eyes again and saw that they were welling up with tears. He was so sweet—a pity he wasn't real. Cynthia reached up and put her blood-streaked hand on his cheek. "I never got to do … that 'special favor' for you …"

Henry squeezed her hand tighter.

Cynthia convulsed as even breathing became difficult and painful. "I … I feel like I'm dying …"

"It's okay," Henry said, softly, "it's just a dream …"

**The End**


End file.
